sometimesI see herworking in the dining roomwhen I go to the nursing hometo visit my mothersometimesshe’s wearing glasses andher hair hangs downI rememberthe first time I saw herhow beautifulI thought she lookedfrom the other side of the roomfloatingabove the aging sea of facesandher voiceso soft and sweetjust the way I expectedthe rare moments I’ve beenclose enough to hear it